


Better Living Through Nanites

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: A wholly indulgent crossover/canon fix, Crossover, Crossover with Being Human (US), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was only problem with executing Jeremy Baker. He was already dead. Well, undead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penndragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penndragon/gifts).



 

It was an unadorned funeral. A hole, a body and a pile of dirt to shovel back in on top of it. None of the three soldiers set to the task said anything as they tossed wet soil in on top of Captain Baker. Paranoia was infectious and informing was profitable. When they were done they packed the dirt down, thumping their shovels on the earth.

'I'd have never pegged Captain Baker as a traitor,' one of them said, voice carefully toneless. 'Goes to show, I guess.'

'You never can tell.'

'Damn shame.'

There was a pause as they tried to work out if they were conspiring or not, then they gathered up their tools and left. The fat, yellow moon shone down complacently on the graveyard. The dirt bounced, clods cracking and rolling off, and then split under white, clawed fingers.

Jeremy Baker dug his way out of the grace and scrambled to his feet. Mud clotted in his hair an blood had dried stiff and dark on his uniform. He brushed himself down, slapping muck out of his uniform.

'Well, that went well,' he said dryly. Mid-sentence he paused, pulled a face and coughed. When that didn't work he tugged his coat open and reached in, pushing his fingers into bloody wet holes and poking around till they bumped something too hard to be flesh and cold to be bone. He pulled it out, a shiny, blood-wet bullet and flicked it away. This time when he cleared his throat his lungs didn't rattle. 'Ingratitude really is the essence of vileness.'

Still. Maybe it was all for the best. It was time to be done with this little rest cure of his. He'd never liked Philadelphia, and now he had the perfect excuse to leave.

Well, he sucked blood off his fingers – sticky, cool and...lacking, once he stocked up for the trip. He smiled and ran his tongue over his ragged, overlapping teeth.

 

* * *

 

It had taken a few years, but eventually people realised they'd had it good when James Bishop ran Boston. Not perfect – he was brutal and mercurial and dangerous – but better than what they had afterwards. What was having to keep your human job for 'appearances', compared to having your get turn up all bloated and white and Bat Boy looking.

It was too late, of course, he was dead. On the other hand he'd been dead for centuries, and there ways to make his lack of being alive more...corporeal.

The coven met in the old warehouse, dragging the sobbing witch with them by the hair. Her mouth was sewn shut and when they'd been cauterising the stumps of her hands they'd put her eyes out. Witches were only dangerous if they had time to plan before capture.

'Will this work?' a ginger vampire asked. His face was twitchy nervous in the dim light.

'I don't know,' their leader said. 'I've been it done before – only worked once – but what have we got to lose? One maimed witch? We're going to have to kill her anyhow, can't have her going back to her coven and pulling the full Lavinia on us.'

'I suppose,' Ginger said, giving the witch an apologetic look. Her ears were still working. 'So what next?'

The leader smirked and pulled her hair back, knotting the heavy curls up. 'Get brushing. I want a big pile of Bishop right there in the centre of the room. The vampires got to work brushing the floor, dragging out the huge blocks of defunct machinery to whisk out the corners. Fine grey ash, soft as talc, hung in the air. Luckily, they didn't have to breath.

The spray paint rattled and spat as the leader marked out the sigil on the floor, consulting her iphone to make sure the picture was accurate. Where they'd left her the witch sobbed quietly and tried to crawl away.

She got nearly to the door before the leader grabbed her foot and dragged her back, leaving a trail of blood and flesh on the floor.

'You are creating greatness,' the leader told her, dragging her onto her knees. 'One day, you'll be a saint in vampire history books.'

Today, though, she was just dead as the switchblade opened her throat from ear to ear. Blood gouted out, splashing over the ground and clotting the ash together, and the leader pronounced the words of the spell with careful precision.

If the witch hadn't been bleeding out on the floor, pain fading to numbness, she could have told her not to finish the spell, she could have told her that the price for this was never as simple as just a death. Could have, but probably wouldn't.

'Rise, James Bishop,' the leader said, stabbing her hand with the bloody knife. 'Rise and be reborn, rise and take back your works.'

Her blood was old and slow, bubbling dark and reluctant from the wound, but it fell eventually. It sat in a discrete globule on the muddy dust and nothing happened.

'It didn't work!'

'Shut up!' the leader yelled. She dug the knife deeper into her hand, twisting it between the bones and carving hunks of flesh until her fingers flopped bonelessly. 'Rise. Rise, you untainted bastard.'

Nothing.

She dropped to her knees, bones clacking and dug her hands into the ash to scatter it. Pain ripped up her arms, scraping out through her veins and down into her bones. She opened her mouth to scream, but she couldn't. The corners of her mouth split and the moorings of her tongue tore she tried so hard to scream, but the pain just dragged the sound down ate it.

Muscles popped and thickened, her joints crackle-popped free and clicked back into heavier settings. Her pelvis snapped and mangled, her genetic code stripping itself back to factory settings and rewriting itself. Flesh stripped itself from its moorings, magic reaching up inside her and turning her inside out. Blood soaked her legs and finally, finally she could scream.

The others ran.

She – not quite, not quite him yet either – caught most of them, sucking down blood and flesh and even crunchy chunks of marrow juicy bone. James Bishop had _not_ been a small thing, remaking him was no easy task.

 

* * *

 

Jeremy – he supposed he could go back to James, but he gotten used to being Baker – drank the man dry, then ripped his neck out to hide the marks. No one thought about vampires any more, the milita were the monsters under the bed. Still no reason to be careless. He pressed his tongue against his fangs, the jab of pain making them retract, and turned to look towards Independence Hall.

The Republic's flag flapped in the night wind, mocking him. 15 years he'd fought under that banner, because he liked building things and vampires...Well, they had proved a terrible disappointment, to be frank. It would take him 15 minutes to tear it all down, to gouge his way to the heart of the Republic and stop it beating. Show Sebastian Monroe _exactly_ what getting killed by Jeremy Baker looked like.

It might even count as a mercy. He'd never been one of the Dutch, swaddling themselves up like mummies against the cooties of progress. As Lieutenant Bishop he'd had to attend seminars and 'Sensitivity Training' until he was sick to the fangs with it. He knew the words – and even before they'd called it anything, he'd seen it.

Men who were brave on the field of battle, feted and unflinching, but who _broke_ on their return to lives they'd rhapsodised about over campfires. Women who killed the very things they loved the most and couldn't explain why. People good and bad, who let whatever had gone rotten in their brain eat everything they were and had.

There was something like that in Monroe and he'd been walking the razor wire over it for years. Until Miles pushed him over. Now he was alone, with nothing but the fear of what was inside and out. Pointless to deem someone culpable unless they had the the capacity to do something different – that was what Aidan had never understood.

A kindness to kill him, but neither of his incarnations had been kind. Or particularly good at letting go.

Jeremy sighed and turned away from the hall. Let Monroe live and conquer. Perhaps he'd find some sort of peace in that. Jeremy didn't have the heart to kill him, let time do that.

He turned his collar up and headed for the gates, slipping through the shadows and alleys where no-one could see him and start rumours. Maybe he'd go back to Boston. Monroe was training his sights further afield, and Boston was _his._ He could see what they had made of it in his absence.

 

* * *

 

The only vampires he found in Boston were crawling, devolved hybrids, ravening mules incapable of understanding the culture they'd suckled the life from them. Cannibals that would eat their own without qualm or regard. Abandoned or orphans. He tried to teach them control, aspirations, but they were incapable of thinking beyond their next mouthful of blood.

He came back to the squalid lair one night and found them feasting on a militia patrol. Pasty creatures with bulging eyes making wet, sucking noises as they tore at the bloody uniforms of the already dead.

It shouldn't have mattered. Humans were just food or raw materials – hadn't he learned that with Jane? It did though. Mortal or not, the militia were more made in his image than these things.

He purged Boston of them, burning their bodies in the old wolf pit. It seemed fitting. Even the fire didn't seem to want their fungal flesh, spluttering reluctantly and burping out gouts of yellow-grey, stinking smoke. It turned Jeremy's stomach as little did any more and he retreated, sealing the tunnels up behind him.

The old worry gnawed him as he slammed the heavy iron door and twisted the handle till it cracked. Aidan had been perfect when he rose – a monster to be proud of – but what if his next get would be like them? He had never drank tainted, animal blood, but he wasn't quite him anymore was he?

Years ago he'd thought about it. He had always liked warriors, and Bass and Miles were quintessentially that. The thought of doing that to one of his children, watching his perfect, beautiful child devolve in some _thing_ he had to put down.

Or leave to suffer, like he'd left Monroe.

He growled, a low, vicious sound, as his thoughts fell into that old rut. It was the vampiric equivalent of senility – not being able to let go of old patterns. He couldn't let go of the militia, of Monroe, and he still called himself Jeremy, even to himself, in his head.

Being in Boston didn't help. The familiar streets made the changes harder to bear. He expected to see people he knew, places he was welcome – Aidan – and he was always disappointed. Maybe he should give Canada a go? He hadn't much liked it last time he'd been there, but the situation hadn't been ideal. The people had been welcoming enough – given the proper push – and tasty.

It was halfway across the Plains Nation – the Republic border with Canada would be a pain to cross, even for him – when he heard someone talking about magic. It was enough to make him prick his ears up. Witches – he'd never liked them much. When he killed someone, he wanted them to stay dead.

Although he could appreciate the irony, considering his own situation.

It didn't take him long to track the source of the rumours. A bitter woman in a hard town with a dead husband and a dying son. Superstition and hysteria, Jeremy was ready to just dismiss her until:

'The blonde witch -' the woman said the 'W' like it was a 'B', 'she said she'd help, she said she'd save my boy. Instead, she took my husband. Hit him on the head and just left him to die alone. I thought – she said she'd help.'

'Guess she lied,' Jeremy said.

The woman wiped tears out of her eyes and glared at him. 'She fixed her leg – Bill saw it, he said the bone just crawled together like magic, only it was something to do with computers. The fat man programmed it-'

Jeremy stopped his half-hearted plans to end her suffering by eating her and leant forwards. 'Fat man? Beard, glasses, whined a lot?'

She shrugged, confusion pinching her lips. 'I guess.'

'And the blonde, she was pretty, 40ish, eyes like an ice pick.'

Contempt went hard on the woman's face. 'That's her. Why?'

'Oh, don't you worry about that,' Jeremy said, giving her a gentle push. Her eyes went a bit vague. 'Just tell me where they went?'

Once he found their trail it wasn't hard to follow. He knew Rachel's scent already – cold enouth to stick your tongue too – and the fat man smelt of desperation and blisters. It helped they were heading west in a ruler-straight line. They had a two week head start on him. It took him a day to catch up. Playing human had slowed him down a lot.

He stopped outside their camp, the air ripe with the smell of cooking rat, and straightened his jacket. It was still his militia green pea-coat. Vampire senility was definitely setting in. Rachel leant forwards and pulled a tail and half a leg off the rat, visibly gagging as she tried to choke it down.

'Rachel Matheson,' Jeremy said pleasantly, stepping out of the shadows. 'Fancy seeing you here. It's a small world, isn't -'

She spat out the rat and snatched the gun from under her jacket and shot him – three times in the chest. He looked down at the blood bubbling out and sighed. 'I guess that's the niceties out of the way.'

'What...what are doing here, Baker?' Rachel said, gun sagging like a sad cock.

'Ah, Rachel, that's a long story,' Jeremy said. He sat down next to the fat man, fire warm on his skin, and leant forwards. He cupped his hands around his knees and smiled cheerily at her. 'So what's this I hear about you being a murdering witch? Same old, same old then.'

She did that still, thoughtful thing that had always driven Monroe mad, but good luck to her if she thought she could-still the dead. The fat man fidgeted next to him – 'discreetly' sliding his hand down to his boot. Metal flashed towards Jeremy's throat. He leant back out of the way, grabbed the fat man's arm and snapped the wrist with a meat-dulled crack, all without breaking eye contact with Rachel. He dragged the screaming genius in close and kissed his cheek.

'If you don't hush, I'll break the other one.'

'What are you doing? Where's Monroe.'

Jeremy twisted his mouth. 'We parted ways.'

'So you're not working for the milita anymore?' Rachel said, careful hope in her voice. 'You can help us. You've seen what he is, Jeremy. Monroe killed my son, Danny never hurt anyone.'

'It's a war, Rachel. People die – and didn't your son shoot down a helicopter with a bazooka? I'm pretty sure that hurt.'

'Monroe's a monster,' Rachel said. 'You were never that. I remember you, you could be kind.'

Jeremy moved, jumping over the fire and grabbing Rachel by the throat. He smacked her back into the tree.

'Let's not be rude,' he said, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. 'What fixed your leg?'

She pressed her pale lips together into a taut line. He smiled and rested his forehead against hers, feeling the pulse of blood in her temple. 'I'm only curious, Rachel. I'll risk killing you to get my answer.'

Her mouth writhed into something like a smile. 'Guess I was wrong about you.'

'Very. My death toll might be nothing like yours, but I'm not nice.'

'Fine,' she said, eyes checking out for a second. She ignored his jibe about the death tally; he thought she hadn't really heard it. Humans were weird sometimes. A hand on his chest pushed him back and he obliged, letting her pull up the leg of her jeans and flash a grubby, but intact knee. 'I'd popped my knee out of joint; I popped it back in. That's all, they were just scared and hopeful.'

Jeremy considered that. It was possible. Humans were the most suggestible people. Still, with that in mind, why not check. He caught her chin between his fingers and caught her gaze with his.

'Been a while since I've done this,' he said, reaching into her mind. 'Hope your brains don't run out your ears.'

She told him everything, smiling and dreamy while the fat man begged her to stop through snot and tears. Not that he understood more than the gist of her explanation.

'So,' he said. 'Tiny magic machines.'

Even compelled she sneered at him. 'If that's what you understand.'

'And the fat man -'

'My name is Aaron.'

Jeremy looked over his shoulder at me. 'Do you really think I care?'

Aaron – hm, it had worked – shook his head mutely and Jeremy turned back to Rachel.

'So, Aaron can reprogram these magic machines and they can fix anything?'

'Most things.'

'...what about brain chemistry?'

She stared at him. 'Surprised you know a word with so many syllables, but yes. They could theoretically function as anti-psychotics, but they can't be taken in and out. If I remove it now -'

'Rachel, shut up!' Aaron begged.

'-my knee will revert to how it was. It isn't actually healed, the nanites are just mimicking the process.'

Jeremy killed her. She was too clever and too driven to leave alive, and with only one leg she'd have probably died soon and badly anyhow. He twisted her lower leg, disarticulating it with a crackle and pop like a chicken leg, and ripped it loose. Blood splattered everywhere, bright and red and already cooling. Once they were dead the blood was...nothing. It didn't even fill you, no matter how much you glutted yourself on it. He poked around in the stump – the torn bone already mending itself – and pulled out a flickering blue and red pill. It reminded him of his old squad car, and he was surprised at the prick of sentimentality there.

Behind him, Aaron finished barfing up his rat. 'What are you going to do to me?' he asked.

Good question. Jeremy tossed the capsule in his hand as he thought about it. He could do anything. Clean his blood, start a new family – he wasn't too old to raise one more child. Or...

He sighed. He'd been Baker too long and too determinedly. That was what he planned to blame it on, anyhow, and there was no one left to point out that Bishop had been a fool for sentiment all his unlife.

'We're going to make my friend better,' he said, turning around. Aaron was lying shuddering on the ground, vomit crusted in his beard and skin the colour of sour milk. Jeremy frowned at him. 'Clear yourself up. I'm not going to back to Philadelphia with you stinking like that.'

In the end, they didn't have to go all the way back to Philadelphia. Three days on the interminable, human-speed journey back (Jeremy could have carried Aaron, he supposed, but it looked so undignified) a squad of helicopters roared by over head

He tilted his head back, shading his eyes against the glare, and picked out Monroe sitting staring down at the passing countryside. On a whim, Jeremy waved cheerfully up at him. There was no way that Monroe could pick him out at this distance, but it amused Jeremy to think of him trying to work out who'd be glad to see the militia.

'Well,' he said to Aaron. 'Looks like we're going the wrong way.'

Aaron wasn't good. His wrist was neatly set and bandaged, but he was sweating his way into an infection and he was very obviously scared of Jeremy. Give him his due though, he did try and stand up for himself.

'What if it doesn't work?' he asked, trotting along at Jeremy's heels as they struck out towards one of the few cities left inhabited in the nomadic Plains. 'What if it kills him? Rachel said it could, she didn't know if it would work on her and she was genetically related to Danny. With Monroe-'

Jeremy glanced back at him and grinned, all shiny black eyes and ragged, jostling fangs. 'Well then, Aaron, you'd get to be my new best friend.'

The smell of fear-released urine that haunted them for the next 10 miles was worth it just to shut the man up.

 

* * *

 

Bishop had never really spent a lot of time in the mid-west. Too sunny, too sparse, too religious – back then. Not that religious iconography was nearly as effective as people hoped, but religion encouraged people to care about whether their neighbour was coveting their ox or living in puddles of bloody sin. It also made it a lot easier to stir up a mob.

It had probably been nicer before it burnt down a few years ago. Jeremy remembered reading the reports and laughing with Miles – so more than a few years, he supposed – that they couldn't have done better if they'd tried. Reports claimed it had burned for a week, a forest fire constrained by walls and bubbling rivers of scalding tar.

He walked over the broken and rippled road, the sharp edges tearing at his boots, and through the dark, fire-cracked buildings. A skinny girl offered to sell her bony wares for a clip of gold, but was happy enough to take it in return for the gossip about the 'flying machines'. They were in Highland.

Jeremy found an empty building for Aaron to work in.

'Don't try and run,' he said. 'I know your smell.'

'That's not creepy at all.'

'A noseless leper could follow your stench, Aaron,' he said. 'Reprogram Rachel's little machines for me – don't dawdle.'

He went out to hunt – ignoring the twist of anxiety in his stomach. It would work or it wouldn't. If it didn't, it might take him a year or a decade but he'd get over it eventually. A contrary voice in his head pointed out he still missed Aidan, decades after their bond first broke. That was different, though. Aidan was his son, however wayward.

Monroe was just a human. No more special, in the passing of decades, than Jane.

 

As a show of force, the helicopters and reports from Georgia had been all the Plains Nation needed. The council had bent their neck to Monroe on arrival, trading independence for the promise of eventual power.

It was a victory, the end of 15 years of conflict, and Monroe was celebrating along in a private suite at the embassy. Jeremy let himself in, giving the guards a sharp push so they wouldn't notice anything for an hour or so. Monroe was sprawled behind the desk, dipping his fingers in his whiskey absently. The click of the door closing brought his head up, drink glazed blue eyes struggling to focus. Jeremy smiled at him and held his arms out.

'Miss me?'

He was expecting anger or confusion, not that bright, ridiculous grin of Monroe's. 'Like a bad smell,' Monroe said. He waved a hand at the bottle of whiskey. 'Help yourself, Captain. They surrendered, the Plains belong to the Republic.'

Uncertain about how to react, Jeremy hesitated and then helped himself to a glass. It was better than the usual stuff, mellow and aged. Monroe kept talking, a slightly slurred account of General Bathory kissing his ring.

'You pull in the loyalty, Randall takes the credit,' Jeremy said, propping his hip on the edge of the desk. 'Be careful of him – he couldn't get anyone to follow him to the pub, but he wants the power.'

Monroe rubbed his hand over his mouth, smile fading to something weary. 'I know. Everyone wants the power. Except you – because I killed you.'

'I was wondering if you'd forgotten.'

'Killed my only friend,' Monroe said, head lolling back. 'The only one who gave a damn. I'm not going to forget that.'

'You really shouldn't talk to hallucinations you know,' Jeremy said, sliding the whiskey out of Monroe's reach.

Monroe reached out and trailed his hand along Jeremy's arm. 'Who else have I got?'

'Whose fault is that?'

A terrible, wild grief welled up in Monroe's face, as consuming as his smile. 'Mine. You were right. It's all my fault.'

He lurched up, grabbing the bottle, and flung it against the wall. It smashed in an explosion of booze and glass. Monroe gave a bitter, giddy laugh and turned to Jeremy.

'You were the only one who told me the truth,' he said, grabbing the front of Jeremy's jacket. 'And I killed you...' He trailed off, a frown tightening his face. 'You stink. Why would a hallucination stink?'

'Maybe it's had to walk a long way,' Jeremy said idly. He pulled the capsule from his pocket, plastic cool and slick against his palm. 'Through a lot of horse crap. Monroe-'

Monroe made a rough sound and flung his arms around Jeremy, breathing raggedly and hot against his throat. 'I thought I killed you.'

It took a second, but Jeremy hugged him back, patting Monroe's back soothingly. 'You're kind of taking the fun out of the next bit, General.'

Monroe stepped back, wiping his nose on his sleeve. 'What do you mean? And how can you....why aren't you dead, Jeremy? I did kill you.'

'Actually, someone beat you to that,' Jeremy said.

He grabbed Monroe by the throat and pinned him down to the desk, ignoring the flare of fear and paranoia in Monroe's eyes. Then Monroe went limp and closed his eyes.

'Just do it then,' he said bitterly. 'I can't kill you again.'

'You didn't exactly do a good job the first time,' Jeremy said, patting his cheek. 'This really is for your own good.'

He pushed Monroe's head back and pushed the capsule up his nose, the structure of his sinuses crackling and blood spurting over Jeremy's fingers. Blood vessels burst in Monroe's eye as he spasmed, his fingers clawing at Jeremy's wrist, and then he went limp.

'This really would have been a lot more fun if you'd been a dick,' Jeremy said when he was done, wiping his hand on his trousers and stroking Monroe's sweaty hair back from his face. He picked the limp body up and carried him over to the sofa, tucking a cushion under his head. 'Sleep well, Bass. Goodbye.'

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It was morning – no, Bass sat up and squinted at the sun hanging low in the sky – it was afternoon, his head was throbbing and the back of his mouth raw and acid with bile. It was still the best night sleep he had in...years. He felt _rested._ Hungover, smelly and sad, but rested.

Sad...he'd dreamed about Jeremy, he remembered. He pushed his forefinger against his forehead, trying to pinpoint the ache. Hallucination was probably the better word. He'd thought – for a single, dimly happy moment – that maybe he could take it back.

Except you couldn't take back a bullet, and, based on how the dream ended, even his subconscious didn't think Jeremy could have forgiven him.

He pushed himself up off the couch, stripping jacket and shirt off as he went. The bowl of hot water the servants had sent last night wasn't hot any more, but it splashed it into his face anyhow. It was cold.

 _Cold_.

It needled ice into his skin, making his skin crawl over his flesh. The shock of it left him breathless; the intensity left him half-hard.

What the fuck...

He grabbed the towel and scrubbed himself dry, the rough scrape and clean smell of it against his skin making him pant like he'd been fucked. The clean shirt he pulled on felt like a cool, wet kiss against his skin and everything felt... It just _felt._

Once – before he settled on booze as his drug of choice – he had tried LSD. It had felt like this, like the world had turned up the saturation on his senses. He wondered if someone had dosed his whiskey and waited for the suffocating clutch of paranoia. All he felt was a sour curl of humour at the fact people were more likely to poison his whiskey than his soup.

What was wrong with him. He turned and stared at himself in the mirror he usually ignored. His face was pale, blue shadows thumbed under red-rimmed eyes, and blood clotted and scabbed on his upper lip.

He poked at his lip with his fingers – feeling the prickle of stubble and the sharp edges of dried blood – and thought about rough hands on his throat and hot, red pain pushing up into his eye. That made him scared, because it was one thing to hallucinate things right when you were drunk. Another to believe it was real the morning afterwards.

Bass clutched the edge of the table with white-knuckled fingers, sweaty and sick to his stomach, and tried to feel normal. To feel nothing. It didn't work. He felt like one of Sandburn's glass vials, full of volatile effervescence and just waiting to be cracked.

He closed his eyes, screwing them tight shut, and wanted someone with a child's raw desperation. Except the only people he'd ever had – Jeremy, Kipling...Miles – he'd driven away. He was alone, and he thought maybe he was already cracked, already mad.

 

* * *

 

 

His men seemed to think he was mad. They watched him smile and eat and stop to toss a ball to the local kids like he was a bear that didn't just dance, it waltzed. An uncracked bottle of whiskey in his quarters one morning – he'd slept, the _whole_ night with no dreams – made Franklin gingerly try to ask if he was 'all right' without hinting he might in any way be 'not all right'.

The mickey in his drink was starting to make sense. Bass wasn't sure he cared either. Maybe Drexel was right and life _was_ better filtered through a dose of poppy. Then someone at a state dinner brought up the rebel purge and he realised that he could feel as bad as he did good. Sorrow and guilt and a horrible, gut-wrenching empathy for how powerless they had been against his choppers twisted his heart like a rag.

'General?' the woman said, fear making her cringe. 'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean.'

He twisted his mouth into a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes. 'Of course not,' he said. 'Don't worry about it.'

The steak still tasted ridiculously, mouth-wateringly good, even if he had trouble swallowing through the lump in his throat. Finally he had to excuse himself before he burst into tears in the middle of dinner.

Instead he did in the privacy of his suite, sitting on the floor of his wrecked bedroom with his hands fisted in his hair as if he could squeeze all the emotions out. Wet-faced and sobbing through clenched teeth, like a child that had hurt itself for the first time. Except he was an adult and he wasn't crying for himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried for anything that wasn't his own pain. Or the last time he hadn't been _afraid_ or enjoyed anything much at all.

Right now, scalding himself in someone else's grief, he missed the numb.

 

* * *

 

The soldiers he summoned the next morning looked almost relieved at the destroyed bedroom. He glared at them until they looked nervous again.

'I need you to do something,' he said.

'Sir?'

He sat back in his chair and tried to look cold and in control. This was going to sound (probably was) insane, so he needed to sell it.

'Jeremy Baker,' he said.

'Captain Baker?'

Bass looked at him with irritation. What other Baker did he care about? Did they think he was so far gone he was going to start a collection of interchangeable officers?

'Yes,' he said sharply. 'Captain Baker. He's in the city. I need you to find him and bring him here.'

Order given, he went back to reading the terms of the treaty like nothing was odd about that at all. The soldiers stared at him and then each other, shuffling their feet.

'Sir, Captain Baker is....I thought he was a traitor?'

Bass glanced up. 'You actually believed that?' He gave a dry laugh, the bitter edge of it turned on himself. 'I own him a bottle of whiskey. I didn't think anyone would believe Baker was a traitor, he's my oldest friend, for God's sake. One of the founding members of the miltia.'

Both men looked uncomfortable, shifting their weight as they tried to build up the courage to speak.

'Where is...Captain Baker?' he asked.

Bass sat back, lacing his hands over his stomach. 'If I knew that,' he said coolly. 'I wouldn't have used the word 'find'. He wasn't supposed to come in yet, but with Georgia showing belly and the Plains following suit... I don't see the point of further subterfuge. Find him. Tell him. Simple enough?'

The dressing down seemed to put them on firmer ground.

'Yes, sir.'

They saluted and left. Bass waited until the door clicked shut before letting himself slump and sigh raggedly, dropping his head back against the chair. Were they obeying them, he wondered, or humouring the crazy man. He supposed it would help if _he_ knew which it was.

He had killed Jeremy – although it seemed like a fucking fever dream now – and maybe he'd not had the stomach to watch but he'd seen the body. So how could he be alive and in the Plains Nation?

It didn't make sense, but two days later the stunned looking guards escorted an irritated looking Jeremy through the door. He wasn't wearing his uniform – he looked oddly unfinished to Bass in civilian clothes – and a grubby, melted-down version of Aaron Pittman trailed along behind him.

Or...Bass was seeing things.

He stared coldly at the guards. 'Report.'

'We found Captain Baker in the Burn,' one of them said. He rubbed his jaw and grinned wryly. 'He was a bit pissed about that.'

'It wasn't part of the plan,' Jeremy said, shoving his hands into his pockets. 'General.'

'Captain,' Monroe said. An absolutely ridiculously amount of glee bubbled up in his chest. He swallowed it down hard and nodded to the guards. 'You're dismissed. Take Pittman with you, clean him and up and confine him to an appropriate room.'

He held on to the mask until he was alone with Jeremy, then the grin escaped him. It stretched over his face until his cheeks hurt, but he couldn't stop. He didn't see why he _should_ stop. Jeremy was alive and Bass wasn't mad and Jeremy had come _back._

OK, he'd punched the soldier who found him. Bass had trained Jeremy though, if he'd not wanted to be here he wouldn't be.

So it was ok. They were ok.

Which was good, because Bass crossed the distance between them and dragged Jeremy into a hug. He was winter-cool and solid, heavy muscle and hard flesh. It was Jeremy and he had always been tactile – a forearm grabber, a shoulder-slapper, a hugger. Except he wasn't and Bass wondered if he should let go, but he couldn't. He wasn't dead, he wasn't still and slack and _gone_ like he'd been in the morgue.

So Bass was just going to hug him until it worked. Under the circumstances it felt like an option.

'You're not dead,' he said. 'You weren't a traitor. I fucked up.'

It wasn't much of an apology, but what would be enough? After a second Jeremy wrapped his arms around him and hugged him back, squeezing until Bass felt his ribs creak. He couldn't breath, he didn't care and yeah, they were OK. He buried his face in Jeremy's neck, breathing in the familiar smell of cordite, smoke and Jeremy, and pressed his knuckles into his back. Breath tickled Bass' throat, soft against the back of his ear, and – fuck – the way his knees melted it might as well have been on his cock.

'So, the hugging is a thing now?' Jeremy asked. 'Recruiting is going to be a lot easier.'

Apparently that was the funniest thing that Bass had ever heard. He hung around Jeremy's neck and laughed until he was wheezing himself into hiccups. Jeremy dragged him over to the couch and hovered over him. He thumped him on the back with bone-rattling force, like he thought Bass was going to choke on his laughter.

It wasn't helping and that only made Bass laugh more. His sides ached and his face hurt and he felt ridiculously, over-whelmingly good.

So he dragged Jeremy down on top of him, sprawling back over the couch in a tangle of legs and arms and Bass' cock pressed against Jeremy's stomach, and kissed him. Because he wanted to be reminded what it was like to kiss someone when he was happy, because Jeremy's worried face was the goofiest thing he'd ever seen and because...he could. So why not.

No angles, no power game – just because it would feel good.

It was the warmth of his breath and the slant of that generous, mobile mouth over Bass, the surprised sound that caught between their tongues and the memory of a sweaty, genial almost-fuck sometime between Miles leaving and everything sliding apart.

It hadn't seemed like a good idea at the time – sad, lonely and half-drunk. Maybe if they had...but they hadn't.

Jeremy made another sound, closer to a growl, and then pulled away from him. 'This isn't a good idea,' he said. His eyes were closed tight, faint wrinkles at the corners, and his lips pressed into a hard straight line. Bass experienced an moment of eerie disconnect. It was a rejection, and he felt the drag of self-contempt and anger, the urge to shove Jeremy away harder; on the other hand he could see the hunger in the twist of Jeremy's mouth and it probably wasn't a good idea.

A kiss had him aching hard, pleasure misfiring into pain along his nerve endings and _want_ burning his bones. If they actually fucked, Bass thought it might kill him.

'OK,' he said, dragging Jeremy's t-shirt up. He spread his hands over the other's man's stomach, the stroke of his thumb making heavy muscle twitch. There wasn't a dimple or a freckle, no scars or injuries. 'Why aren't you dead.'

'Militia markmanship is abysmal?' Jerermy said.

Not good enough, but it wasn't the only question Bass had. 'What did you do to me?'

Jeremy disentangled himself from Bass and perched on the arm of the couch, pulling his t-shirt back down. Bass tucked his arm behind his head and waited.

'Apparently the nanites are a high-tech swiss army knife,' Jeremy said eventually. 'They can do more than suck up electricity. They can make things...easier, although I think Aaron might have pushed your brain too far the other way.'

Bass ignored that. He wasn't sure he wanted to go back to what it was like before, or even more in that direction. It had been like being wrapped up in a wet quilt, heavy and smothering.

'Why did Aaron have it?'

Before Jeremy could answer, the door burst open and Franklin stumbled in, sweating and breathless. His mouth was open, but it froze mid-gape when he saw Jeremy.

'Captain Baker?' he said.

'Yeah, I'm not dead,' Jeremy said. 'Keep up.'

Franklin's mouth opened and shut twice before he could get a noise to come out. 'I – that's...' He shook his head and tried again. 'General Monroe, we have a sighting of General Matheson entering the city,' he said.

Miles.

There were too many emotions there for Bass to even describe. He dragged himself to his feet and stalked over to the window, his back resolutely turned to both men. The shadowy reflection of his face in the glass twisted with pain. He'd thought 'you're nothing to me' had hurt at the time.

'Find him,' he said. 'Alive. No one is to die.'

'You know, I don't think Miles has got that memo,' Jeremy said. 'Maybe we should send him a nerf sword?'

Bass turned around. 'I didn't ask for feedback, Captain,' he said. 'You have your orders – and get back into uniform.'

There was a pause while they both wondered if a kill order functioned as a discharge. Apparently not. Jeremy bent his head respectfully and did as he was told. Franklin didn't even wait till they were out of the room before demanding to know what was going on.

Alone again Bass poured himself a glass of whiskey, his hand shaking. He imagined he could hear the tick and scrape of _things_ in his brain. Rachel wouldn't have given the nanites to Aaron; she wouldn't tell you were the toilet was if it wasn't to her benefit.

So maybe he didn't want to know how Jeremy got the nanites.  


	3. Chapter 3

Jeremy had been a teenager before the idea of ‘teenagers’ had been invented. He imagined it would have been something like this though: frustration, dry-humping and clothes that were too tight.

He sprawled back over the desk, arms braced, with Bass between his thighs. A rough hand scruffed the back of his neck - it was hot, but he thought he should probably be grumbling a bit at the dominance - and hard, eager kisses bit across his lips. It turned out that Bass really liked kissing...and touching...and licking...and he didn’t like being told ‘no’ anymore than he had before the nanites.

‘I should go,’ he said, tilting his head back out of the kiss. 

‘You should do what I tell you,’ Bass told him, tightening his fingers around his neck. ‘Stop leaving, Jeremy. I’m not going to break.’

Except, unfortunately, he would. Humans were so desperately fragile, even the strongest of them. He’d broken Jane’s ribs once in a hug, just excited to have her back after a visit to her parents. Minds were even more fragile. A lot of people, in Jeremy’s experience, reacted...poorly...to the discovery their understanding of the university was based on missed connections and lies. It wasn’t the majority, but there were always a few who just didn’t...adjust to the new lines of the world.

Jeremy wanted to be sure the nanites were working before he told him anything. No, that was a lie. With the smell of Bass and blood and arousal sticking to him, making his fangs and cock ache, what he wanted was to bury himself in the other man. Drink him and fuck him and have him. What he needed was for the high of sanity to wear off for Bass, to find the new median, and then Jeremy would decide exactly what he was going to do.

Luckily, until then, Jeremy’s surefire distraction technique still worked.

‘We’re close to Miles,’ he said. ‘Had sightings down in the Burn.’

Bass tugged Jeremy’s head back and bit his throat with blunt teeth. That was all sorts of...dominance, affection, fucking, fighting, friends. Vampires said a lot with a bite. It dragged a groan out of Jeremy, want cramping through him like hunger, and Bass smirked against his skin. 

‘Someday, you’re not going to have anything to distract me,’ he said. Letting go, he stepped back and smoothed his hand through his short, wayward curls. ‘I want him caught, Jeremy. He’s stirring up unrest, that’s going to mean more death.’

Jeremy dragged himself up off the desk, unsatiated desire aching in his thighs and gut, and tucked his shirt back into his pants. That was another thing that Bass liked - making sure Jeremy still wasn’t dead. Hands and lips on Jeremy’s stomach and chest, as if touch was more trustworthy than sight. 

‘I know where he buys his whiskey,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll find him sooner or later.’

The corner of Bass’ mouth twitched. He’d stopped drinking since the nanites. It had been so long since he saw the world, he said, he didn’t want to miss any of it. 

‘Bring him back. Alive,’ Bass said, retreating behind his desk. He glanced at Jeremy and frowned. ‘And button up your uniform. You look unfinished.’

Grumbling, Jeremy did as he was told. It was borrowed and it squeezed around him like a vice. He tugged at the collar irritably.

‘If I strangle in this, you’ll be sorry,’ he said.

‘I like the way your shoulders look in something that fits,’ Bass said calmly. ‘Besides, you’ll just come back to life, right?’

He waited. Jeremy just shrugged and smiled affably, stuffing his hands into his pockets.The familiar gesture (how many times had Miles yelled at him about it?) made Bass wince and look away. That hadn’t been the point - Jeremy always walked shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, not just before assassination attempts - but it gave Jeremy an opportunity to duck out without having to lie about anything more than usual.

Franklin was waiting for him outside, thumbs hooked in his broad belt and sweat on his forehead. He was grinning. Jeremy gave him a suspicious look.

‘What?’

‘Nothin’,’ Franklin said affably. He fell in next to Jeremy as they headed downstairs, boots hitting the old, wooden steps in tandem. ‘Just...man’s in a damn good mood lately?’

‘Well, he’s won,’ Jeremy pointed out. ‘Near as dammit conquered the continent.’

‘Could be,’ Franklin said. ‘Or maybe absence makes the heart grow fonder, eh?’

Oh for...

Jeremy glared at him. ‘Shut up.’

‘You got a hickey on your neck.’

He didn’t. Vampire’s didn’t bruise, it was a waste of blood. Jeremy caught himself checking anyhow, fingers bumping the crook of his jaw. He had definitely been pretending to be human too long. Franklin guffawed and slapped him on the back.

‘Spare me your blushes,’ he said. ‘It’s all good as far as I’m concerned. When we thought the General had killed you, Captain, no-one knew what to make of it. We thought he’d... Well, it’s better now you’re back. Hell, the way things are going I might actually get to retire to that farm my wife keeps talking about.’

It was stupid to care what a human thought about him - like a farmer fretting the cow he milked didn’t fancy him. On the other hand, Jeremy couldn’t remember the last time one of his own kind had been glad to see him. Aidan, Marcus, the Dutch - they’d all hated Bishop as much as they loved him. What the hell, people had pets and they enjoyed them wagging their tails at the end of the day.

‘Yeah, well,’ Jeremy said, bumping his shoulder against Franklin’s. ‘Being flavour of the month isn’t going to last if we can’t collar Miles.’

Franklin grimaced. ‘I loved the man, but life would have been a lot simpler if he’d headed for Canada five years ago.’

‘He hates the beer,’ Jeremy shrugged. ‘And moose.’

*******

The Bull and Bush sold information and cheap bottles of what they called whisky, but Jeremy was pretty sure was just warm piss. It was sour yellow and had a greasy film floating on the top. Franklin slouched on the opposite side of the table, nursing a beer that was nearly the same yellow as the whisky. 

‘So what are we do with Major Neville?’ Franklin asked.

‘Tom? Kill him, I suppose. He’s a traitor, and we’ve no orders to the contrary.’

‘So Miles gets a second chance,’ Franklin took a sip of his whisky and twisted his mouth, setting the glass back down carefully. ‘The rest of us are screwed?’

‘Miles is a military genius, co-founder of the Republic and the General’s childhood friend,’ Jeremy said. ‘Tom Neville sold our asses out to Georgia. So yeah, that’s how second chances are parcelled out.’

‘He was a good officer.’

‘He was ok.’  
‘The men loved him.’

Jeremy snorted. ‘The men love whisky, the field surgeon and the whore they saw last,’ he said. ‘Commanding officers shouldn’t make their decisions based on whether or not their men like them.’

He tried the whisky. It tasted worse than it looked. At the bar a skinny kid in a dirty hoodie shuffled between elbows and pushed a pouch of something across the scarred wood with a very clean hand. He turned to Franklin and caught the other officer studying him rather than the bar.

‘What?’ he asked.

Franklin blinked and shook his head. ‘Nothing. You just seem...different.’

‘Oh?’ Jeremy checked the bar. The hoodie was still hovering, leg twitching nervously. He caught Franklin’s eyes and...nudged. ‘I guess you’re so glad to have me back, I seem even more awesome than before?’

He had never been able to explain to Aidan exactly how compulsion worked. It had always been easy for him - somewhere between charisma and force - but Aidan had been incapable, or unwilling, to feel the moment when conviction clicked into place. He’d just shoved, like a man with his shoulder to a door, while Jeremy let himself in and moved things around.

It wasn’t the first time he’d nudged Franklin, so it didn’t take long. The niggle of disquiet was tucked under a rug and his natural liking for Jeremy given a quick dust and set pride of place. The trick was getting them to convince themselves they were wrong or right or whatever it was you wanted.

‘And speaking of how awesome I am,’ Jeremy said, disengaging smoothly. He sipped the foul whisky and tilted his head towards the bar. ‘Isn’t that Robin?’

Franklin looked blank. ‘Who?’

‘Robin? Batman and Robin..,’ Jeremy sighed. All those centuries he’d spent keeping up to date on the ridiculous vagaries of pop culture and now he was the only one who got them. ‘Matheson’s sidekick - his niece. That’s her.’

‘Oh.’ Franklin shifted in his seat and ran his eyes along the bar, talking absently as he scanned the room. ‘Wouldn’t Monroe be more Batman? Dead family and all.’

‘Yeah, well, pretty sure Charlie Matheson would look better in scaly green panties than me.’

Franklin grinned. ‘The General might disagree. I could ask him?’  
Jeremy gave him the finger and stood up, shrugging his borrowed jacket off. ‘Militia,’ he said, putting his hand on his gun. ‘Everyone on their knees.’

About half the bar did, hands behind their heads without him even asking, while the rest grumbled and muttered and spouted out the dystopic equivalent of ‘you’re not the boss of us’. Charlie in the Hoodie was the only one who ran.

‘Damn it,’ Franklin spat, slapping the table. ‘Baker, we had her.’

‘A tail is quicker than torture,’ Jeremy said. ‘Now come on, before we lose her.’

That wasn’t going to happen, he had her scent - fletching glue, gunpowder and lilacs, but it stopped Franklin grumbling and got him up out of his seat. 

‘This was a test of the militia arrest system,’ Jeremy said on his way out the door. ‘Feel free to resume drinking your regular piss.’

He ditched Franklin at the first crossroads they could have lost Charlie at. On his own, he didn’t have to pretend. The spoor of Charlie Matheson’s perfume led him back down into the Burn, cutting through the smoky barbeque miasma of the place like air freshener. He could smell her confidence, the blood slowing in her veins as her adrenaline dropped with the assumption of safety.

A cluster of tents had popped up like pustules in the ruins of an old office building, pitched agains the marble slopes of cracked walls. A heavily pregnant woman fell and sliced her leg open on the ragged ground - the thick, fecund smell of her blood making Jeremy’s fangs slice at his gums. It had been a while since he’d eaten his feel, and nothing sweetened the blood like pregnancy.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, stepping forwards. The woman sat up, folding herself around the bulge of her belly, and stared at him with huge, frightened eyes. It would be easy enough to sooth her fear - round his shoulders, pull up a Lieutenant Bishop smile of protecting and serving - but why bother. There was no-one around to hear her...

Someone screamed, and the thread of Charlie’s scent popped with the sweetness of fear in Jeremy’s nose. He snarled - couldn’t even grab a snack anymore - and took off after the sound, leaving his dinner with a fear-induced ache in her belly she couldn’t explain and the memory of a friendly militia man helping her to her feet.

Jeremy blurred through a world gone slow and stupid, Charlie Matheson’s fear the only solid thing in it. The scent led him into what had been a shopping mall once, all glass and polished metal and expensive toys. Now the toys had been looted and the mall was a wasteland of anaemic weeds and waterfalls of melted and fused glass frozen in dark ripples on the wall.

‘Get off me!’ a girl yelled. ‘Get away.’

Jeremy paused in the shadows to watch. A scruffy gang of Burners surrounded Charlie, shoving and pinching at her with lewd hands as she tried to ward them off. One of them was already down, bleeding out of the ground around the sword she’d buried in his gut. Since she hadn’t retrieved it, Jeremy guessed it was jammed in his spine. 

He tched to himself. Miles should have taught her better than that.

One of the Burners lunged and grabbed Charlie from behind, groping her boobs with ash and grease smeared hands. He slobbered a wet kiss over her neck.

‘We’re going to have so much fun with you, sweet-thing,’ he said.

Intervene, or not? Jeremy pursed his lips and thought about it. He didn’t owe the Mathesons anything, and a rescue was always more impressive if the victim was properly broken first. An injured, and properly compelled to gratitude, Charlie in the care of the Militia would be a good piece to use again Miles.

Charlie slammed her head back into her captor’s face, the hard curve of her skull shattering his nose with a splurt of blood, and jabbed her elbow into his ribs. She wrenched free as he screamed, yanking his short, hooked knife from his belt.

It cost them two more deaths and a maiming - the unfortunate Burner lying clutching what was left of his balls as his five surviving friends pinned Charlie to the ground. The new leader grabbed Charlie’s face, digging his nails into her cheeks, as he unzipped his jeans.

‘Open your mouth.’

Charlie spat blood in his face. He reared back, swiping at his eyes (like Charlie’s lilac sweet blood had anything worse than what was festering in his plasma), and then screamed in rage and slammed her head into the ground.

Jeremy snarled, a brutal, ragged sound that reached down into the Burners hindbrains and warned that they were about to get their shit kicked in. He couldn’t help it; he’d always loved a fighter and how many nights had he sat through Miles muttering on about his niece?

It took five seconds.

One to wrench the sword out of the dead man’s spine, a twist of his wrist shattering the vertebra. Four to slaughter all about the leader, sword snipping neatly through their necks and sending their heads rolling around the ground. Blood splattered Jeremy in sticky gouts and he resisted the urge to lick his fingers clean.   
‘Who...what are you?’ the leader spluttered, staring at Jeremy.

He smiled, and flicked the sword. ‘Open your mouth.’

The Burner tried to run. Jeremy caught him and pushed him to his knees. ‘Open your mouth.’

Sobbing snot and salt, the Burner did as he was told. Jeremy rammed the sword home through the back of his skull, stapling him to his own feet. Then he went over to Charlie, crouching down next to her.

‘Miss me?’ he asked, putting his hand behind her head. His fingers squelched in blood and wet hair and a soft spot on the back of her skull that shouldn’t be there. She whined, a hurt, mindless sound, and he heard her heart flutter weakly against her chest. Her eyes were open, but not focusing on him. Damn it. This wasn’t part of the plan. Jeremy cupped her face and made her look at him, scooping in her brain for the disconnected layers of her mind. ‘Charlotte. Charlie. Can you talk.’

She blinked and saw him. Her tongue swiped dry, bloody lips. ‘Fuck you.’

Jeremy laughed and...why not. He still hadn’t made his mind up what he was going to do about Bass, and he’d always wanted a daughter.

‘Are you a virgin, Charlie?’ he asked, slapping her cheek lightly when she didn’t answer. ‘Charlie, pay attention. You ever fucked a boy?’

It wasn’t prurient. Eternal virginity, a vampire afflicted with it had told him once, was a wearisome thing. She’d shown him - two years dead and, good Catholic priest that he’d been, two years away from virginity himself - how to deal with it with just his fingers and fangs.

‘No,’ Charlie sobbed. Tears spilled down her grubby cheeks, tainted with watery pink blood. ‘I mean, I’m not. I’m cold.’

‘You’re dying,’ Jeremy told her, lifting her gently into his arms. She didn’t weigh much at all, nothing but fine bones and skin. He held her with his eyes, holding her conscious over the seizure of her ruined brain. ‘Do you want to liVe, Charlie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then fight,’ he told her, baring his shark’s grin of teeth. She sobbed and struggled, clawing weakly at his face with short, practical nails and cursing him until even he couldn’t hold her dying brain together. 

It was better to die with adrenaline in your blood and fear sour in your gut. Death was the one thing that humans understood better than vampires, who only saw it. That Welsh poet - Dylan something - had got it right. ‘Do not go gentle...burn and rave at close of day’. 

Die knowing that you want to live - no matter the cost - and unlife was more bearable. 

Jeremy twisted his hand in the bloody tangle of Charlie’s hair and yanked her head back, baring the smooth curve of her throat. The pulse was barely visible under her jaw. He kissed it once, for luck, and tore the flesh out of it with one, ravening bite. Blood filled his mouth, infused with enough chemicals and fear to give him a contact high, and he gulped her down hungrily.

Some of the elders had claimed to find histories in the blood; all Jeremy had ever found was the now. He drank Charlie dry, sucking at her severed veins like straws, and then tore his own wrist open and put it to her mouth.

Ten drops would raise a vampire. He gave her more than that, the trickle of blood into her stomach binding her to him, to his line. A child, not a by-blow.

When his parched veins ran dry, he wrapped Charlie’s bloody corpse up in his jacket and carried her away. He had to find somewhere safe for her to rest until it was time to rise. No one saw him go, he was too fast, too impossible, but he heard Miles yelling desperately for Charlie behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Mornings were when you remembered. That hazy moment between not-sleeping and actually engaging with wakefulness when you realised you’d forgotten that everything was shit. When the only reason you moved was because staying there alone with your pain was marginally worse.

It wasn’t this screaming fire under her skin, on her skin, or the battering cacophony of...of everything that scratched at her brain. Charlie woke screaming and he was there. Baker. The one who’d taken such glee in telling her what Miles had been, and she...

‘I thought you were going to sleep all day,’ he said.

Charlie scrambled backwards, kicking herself into the corner, and looked around frantically. She was on a narrow bed in a small, barren room with no touch of personality. Not even something as rubbish as Miles’ blue whiskey cups. It was cold... she was...naked. She was naked. Charlie scrabbled for the blanket, yanking it up to her chin and pinning it flat across her chest.

‘What did you do to me?’ she spat.

Baker watched her with an odd, fond smile. Indulgent. ‘Everything,’ he said.

Her eyes widened and his eyes flicked down and then up again. ‘Oh, that? No. Your clothes were just a mess. You wouldn’t have wanted to wake up in them.’’

Charlie glared at him. ‘I didn’t want to wake up naked, either.’ She licked her lips. God, she was hungry...thirsty. Keeping one eye warily on Baker she squirmed towards the edge of the bed, tucking the blanket around her over her bottom. Her feet touched the cold wood floor.  ‘Where am I? How did I get here?’

‘The Monroe Republic Embassy,’ he said, rolling the words over his tongue like they amused him. ‘And I carried you.’

She blushed, hating that he could see it all the way from her breasts to her ear-tips, and then her brain hooked on the ‘embassy’ part of what he’d just said. ‘Monroe’s here.’

Close enough to _touch_ , to get her own revenge. Somehow, alone and naked and unarmed. It didn’t matter. She shot to her feet and Baker caught her, one thick arm hooking around her waist. He dumped her back on the bed and leveled his finger at her nose.

‘Not him,’ he said. She tucked her chin and looked up at him sulkily. ‘You don’t touch Bass. Understand?’

She caught herself nodding and stopped, hugging herself in confusion and pain. Everything was so noisy here and she was so thirsty and... Charlie swallowed, parched throat scraping, and stared at the scruffy, soft-looking lump that was Captain Jeremy Baker.

'Why do I _love_ you?' she demanded.

He grinned at her, mild blue eyes gone black (and had she seen that before? She thought she had, but...it was a muddle of red and pain and fear) and snaggle shark teeth slicing his gums raw. It should have been a horrorshow, she knew that it was ugly, scary. Instead she felt sighing hero-worship, like he was special.

'Because I'm your new daddy,' he said, leaning over the bed and kissing her on the forehead. She felt his cold lips and the edge of fangs against her skin. 'Welcome to the family.'

 

* * *

Vampire.

Charlie leant back against the warm, scraped clean dome of the Captiol building and looked down over the city. Up here it was almost quiet, just a under-murmur of noise that sounded like a...heartbeat. She licked her lips, thirst/hunger/want jostling at her.

'I don't believe you,' she said.

Jeremy spread his arms, the flick of his fingers encompassing them and their surroundings and the last...day? hours? of her life. 'And your explanation?'

She crossed her arms. 'Nanites.'

Jeremy pooched his lower lip out thoughtfully. 'Maybe,' he said. 'Except I predate them.'

'Far as you know.'

He did that wide, bloody grin again, all teeth and blood and Charlie wanted to taste him so bad it made her ache and hate herself at the same time. 'Imprinting' Jeremy called it. A new vampire wouldn't last long if it didn't abide by its maker's rules; an elder vampire would have no reason to let a young one mature if they didn't feel any attachment.

_'Parents love their offspring,' Jeremy had shrugged in the end. 'Offspring love their parents, until they don't.'_

He was talking, Charlie realised. She dragged her mind back to the moment and leant in closer to listen.

'...would have burned any scholar who talked about machines too small to see at the stake for witchcraft,' he said. 'Which would, I suppose, have prevented our current situation.'

Charlie scratched her arms and listened to the thump thump of the city's heart. If she breathed in she could smell the old char from the Burn and the sweet green salt smell of the sea carried from California.

'Do you drink-' she faltered and poked her finger at her neck instead of saying the word.

'Blood? Yes. We can eat and drink other things, human food, but tastes empty, nourishes nothing and I wouldn't advice trying it until your stomach is a little stronger than it is right now. It comes out pretty much as it goes in, and other than sweetcorn you aren't used to that.'

'Ew. Do I have to...do I have to kill people?'

There was a pause and she could feel Jeremy studying her. She hunched her shoulders against the wind and pretended she couldn't.

'...no,' Jeremy said eventually, drawing the word out between his teeth. 'You don't have to, but you will.

'No,' she objected before she thought about it. 'I won't.’

'You will,' he insisted. 'Like it or not, draw it out or not, one day you’ll be too hungry or angry or just not care enough to stop.’

She set her jaw. ‘No.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘You think you’re the first vampire to go vegan?’ he said. ‘You think you’re the first to wake, feeling like a god, and declare you will be a benevolent one? It won’t work, Charlie. We eat. We kill. That’s what we are. You can pretend you’re different for a while, maybe for years, but eventually you’ll be swimming in blood. Like the rest of us.’

Charlie shook her head, the wind tangling her hair in front of her face. ‘I’d rather die.’

‘Eh,’ Jeremy said, walking over to her. He put an arm around her shoulder. ‘You say that, we all say that, but it’s just a pretty lie. You want to live, that’s why you came back. That’s how you came back. Find a way to live with the killing, Charlie - kill the predators, kill the already dying, kill the rude - but don’t try to avoid it. You’re my only daughter, I don’t want to see you break your heart on that.’

She snuggled under his arm, pressing her face against his chest. The heavy green wool scratched her cheek and smelt of Jeremy, blood and...Monroe. She didn’t know how she knew it was him - the tang of whiskey and musk, smoke and juniper - but it slotted into her brain like it was something she’d known for a long time.

‘So I have to find a way to kill that I can stomach?’ she said.

‘Eventually,’ he said, stroking her hair. His fingers caught in the bloody, matted knots.

Charlie sniffed and closed her eyes. ‘I will.’

‘Good girl.’

She pushed him off the roof. He didn’t scream as he fell, body spinning through the air. Charlie hesitated for a breath and then was gone. It had been so stupid. To think it _mattered_ that she was under the same roof. Nowhere in Denver was far away for her now. She darted along the rooftops on ridiculously sure feet, laughing with the delight of it.

If she’d been like this, they’d have won every fight.

Her step faltered suddenly, making her stumble. If she’d been like she could have saved Danny. She could have saved Dad. Tears blurred her eyes. She blinked them back, swiping her sleeve over her face, and caught her balance. No.

She was done looking back. Nothing could change the past (could it? could Jeremy?), but she could change the future. For one man, anyhow.

The doors of the Embassy were locked and guarded. So Charlie went in through a window, dropping from the roof and dangling by the fingers of one hand as she forced the lock. The pulse of blood trapped inside the walls hit her - pressing against her skin like a hand - and she felt her fangs from the first time.

She pressed her tongue to the ragged points, flinching from the moment of pain and then doing it again. The taste of her own blood was dry and somehow empty, but still sweet. She swallowed it and ached for something... _alive_.

A passing servant glanced at her and paused. ‘What’s your business, girl?’

His blood sang, bright and red and fizzy against throat and wrists. He had so much and Charlie was so dry. She shook her head mutely. Not him. She didn’t want him.

‘I’m to report to General Monroe,’ she muttered, ducking her chin to hide behind her hair.

‘Oh?’

She tugged her sleeve back, flashing the crooked M on her skin. The sight of it made her stomach twist with refreshed bitterness. She’d thought she’d wear his mark for a lifetime. Now? How many years would she be branded for?

‘Captain Baker sent me,’ she said. Mentioning him made her glance over her shoulder, straining her ear for the sound of his approach. If he told the truth - and he had, so far - the fall would only slow him down a little. Long enough. ‘It’s important.’

The servant licked his lips and backed down at Jeremy’s name. Charlie felt a ridiculous pop of smug at the power he had. Ridiculous because she shouldn’t care, and because he could have so much more if he wanted.

‘General Monroe is his office,’ the man said. ‘I’ll tell him-’

‘No need,’ Charlie said brightly. ‘He’s expecting me.’

Or he should be. He’d pretty much killed or broken everyone she loved - of everyone who wanted him dead she had to be near the top. She brushed past the servant and walked down the hall, forcing herself to move believably, to be slow.

No guards at the door. Charlie let herself in. He was sitting behind the desk, slouched back in his chair and looking...normal, his hair ruffled and holding the pages nearly as far from his face as Miles did. He glanced up and they stared at each other.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, voice gone slow and careful. His eyes flicked past her, looking for Miles. ‘What are you doing?’

Charlie smiled Jeremy’s smile, all teeth and hunger. ‘You. I can live with killing you.’

He grabbed for his gun. Fast, but not fast enough. Not even close. She lunged across the room, slapping the gun out of his hand, and twisted her hands in his shirt.

‘You took everything,’ she said. Her voice was meant to be firm, judicial. Instead it cracked and ached. ‘Now you’ll know how it feels.’

She yanked him close, breathing in the smell of him, and bit clumsily at his throat. His blood filled her mouth, hot and sweet and with the dizzying kick of good whiskey, and she moaned low and ragged in her throat. It was like sex. Better than sex. She dragged him closer, wrapping herself around him like a vine. Then a rough hand scruffed the back of her neck and dragged her off him. Bass staggered back, face stark and blood bright against his throat. 

'I told you,' Jeremy snarled, throwing her across the room. He was blood-stained and ragged, his coat missing an arm and torn over the shoulders. 'Not him, Charlie.'

She twisted and landed on her feet. The taste of blood wasn't enough, she needed more, but her instincts were telling to cower. Shame she'd never been good at that. She bared her teeth at him, a wet hiss bubbling over her tongue. 'You said we kill. Why not him.'

'He's. Mine.'

Jealousy scraped at Charlie and she snarled, lunging for Bass. Jeremy caught her, spinning her around and slamming her to the ground. His knee dug into her shoulders and a big, cold hand squeezed the back of her neck. 'Mine, Charlie.'

A gun fired, the retort echoing around the room. Habit made Charlie flinch. It took a while to remember she didn't - probably didn't - have to worry about bullets anymore. 

'Oh for fuck's sake,' Jeremy said. 'Again?'


	5. Chapter 5

Seriously.

A month of heavy petting and apologies and the first chance he gets, the bastard shoots him again. Jeremy stood up and turned around, scruffing Charlie like a kitten and dragging her with him. He glared at Bass, who was standing behind his desk with his sleeve pressed to his bloody neck and a gun in his hand.

‘So the first chance you get,’ Jeremy said, ‘you shoot me again?’

Bass glared back at him. His sleeve was turning out to be an inadequate bandage and the smell of blood filled the room like good wine. Despite himself, Jeremy licked his lips.

‘You survived a firing squad,’ Bass said sharply. ‘I doubt a bullet in the shoulder is going to slow you down much.’

That was a fair point, but still. Jeremy rolled his shoulder. He’d only just popped it back in, and now he could feel the bullet in there. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

‘I want answers,’ Bass said. He pointedly put the gun down on the desk, metal clicking against wood. ‘What are you? And don’t feed me any of that crap about my militia having bad aim. Did the nanites do that to you? To her?’

He was staring at Charlie with an expression of disgust on his face. Jeremy was a bit offended - there was nothing wrong with her - but he supposed, to be fair, that she still was at the naked baby bird stage of vampire cuteness. All bloody drool and biting yourself.

‘No,’ he said grouchily. ‘They aren’t.’

Charlie twisted around, hooking her fingers in his pocket and tugging. Her eyes were huge and shining with innocence in the bloody mask of her face. ‘We could share,’ she cooed, rubbing her face on his sleeve.

The smell of hot, sweet blood - the blood that only a thin veil of human skin and self-restraint had kept him from before - tugged at Jeremy. He licked his lips again. It would solve some of the more pressing...

‘Don’t even think about it, Baker,’ Bass growled, voice sliding down into the rasp of command. It...irritatingly enough...had enough of an effect to remind Jeremy that wasn’t part of the plan. Not yet, anyhow. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s hungry,’ Jeremy said, at the same time Charlie snapped, ‘You killed my family.’

He clenched his hand in her hair and yanked her head back, making her meet his eyes. ‘You’ve a new family now, Charlie. He’s off-limits. Understood?’

It wasn’t compulsion. That didn’t work on other vampires, it was something...close. A push that could be resisted or accepted. After a pouting moment, Charlie accepted. Not with particularly good grace, mind you.

‘Fine,’ she growled, wrenching away from him. ‘I’ll starve then, because I won’t kill innocents and you won’t let me kill the guilty.’

She was gone, sending the papers on Bass’ desk fluttering up into the air and slamming the doors behind her hard enough to crack them. Jeremy heaved a sigh, puffing out his cheeks.

‘I’d forgotten what they were like when they were this age,’ he said. ‘All blood-lust and temper tantrums. She pushed me off the dome, you know. Little brat.’

Bass swallowed, throat working and the pulse under his jaw betraying he wasn’t quite as calm as he looked. Probably not, Jeremy realised as he tasted his own blood, the best place to look.

‘What are you?’ Bass asked.

Jeremy stretched. Nothing was in its right place. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched his arms above his head, linking his fingers. The recently shattered vertebra in his back cracked and popped as the slotted back into place.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Fangs, blood-lust, super-strength? It’s not been that long.’

‘They’re not real,’ Bass said.

Jeremy blinked, feeling the sharp jab of pain through the bridge of his nose as his eyes bleed black. It was too bright when he opened his eyes, the world washed in glare and only the bright splash of Bass’ blood looking...real. He smiled anyhow, tapping his tongue along the sharp points of his ragged fangs.

‘You sure.’

Bass reached for the gun, stopped himself. ‘No wonder you didn’t dive for cover,’ he said quietly. ‘If they’d shot you...?

‘An annoyance,’ Jeremy said. Reminded he hunched his shoulder, the nobble of metal rolling around in the muscle. He wished more people would shoot him in the front. It was easier to get it out.

Bass’ eyes narrowed. ‘What about beheading, garlic, a stake to the heart?’

‘Not making me feel very wanted,’ Jeremy said. He hesitated, but it wasn’t as if he had to let Bass remember this conversation. Think of it was a dry-run, he decided. ‘Beheading, technically, but I got better. Garlic no. Stake yes, but you have to actually pierce the heart.’ He mimed a stabbing motion. ‘Right through.’

Black boots crushed the rug as Bass circled Jeremy, closer and closer.

‘You’re not human,’ he said, pressing the flat of his hand to Jeremy’s back.

‘No, not for a long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Long enough,’ Jeremy put his fangs away, adopting his human face again. As a way of avoiding temptation, it wasn’t wholly effective. He swallowed. ‘General? You might not want to stand so close, right now.’

Bass ignored him, finishing the circuit to stop in front of Jeremy. His throat was still bleeding, but not much. Not enough. Charlie had missed the vein, although she had managed to make a ragged mess of the wound. Jeremy watched the slow pulse of it, time slowing until he watch each drop wick into the stiff, stained collar.

‘Baker.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Do vampires fuck?’

That was enough to make Jeremy tune back into the conversation. He felt - briefly, ridiculously - maligned. ‘What? Yes!’

Bass gave that crooked, not quite smile that hadn’t gotten much of an outing recently. ‘Then I guess nothing has changed, Captain.’ He blotted his neck on his sleeve and leant back against the desk, raising his eyebrows. ‘And I asked you to find Miles Matheson, not turn his niece into a monster.’

‘I used my initiative,’ Jeremy said.

‘And I think experience has taught us, that never ends well,’ Bass said dryly. ‘Go. Keep her from doing anything stupid.’

Jeremy turned to go and hesitated. ‘I can make you...forget about this, if you want,’ he said.

‘No,’ Bass said instantly. ‘I have enough problems. No more, Jeremy.’

OK. It probably wasn’t wise, but the Dutch were dead so who was to know. Jeremy inclined his head - playing the soldier, the familiar rituals - made it easier to stay in control. He went more sedately than Charlie had.

‘And before you go, get a clean uniform. That fits.’

 

It was indulgent, but he let Charlie drink from his kills instead of making her own. More Burn-boys, ash-smutted and with blood under their nails, so she’d feel better about it. Really, at this rate he was going to spoil her.

He dragged the last of them into an alley and palmed the man’s face, pushing his head to the side so he could tear into his throat. No pretence of being neat, he just ripped down to the jugular and lapped up the hot, rich blood. It got in his nose and dripped down his chain. With only the dregs left he passed the man to Charlie, ignoring her pout as her meal’s heart stuttered and died before she’d her fill.

‘It won’t kill you,’ he told her.

She looked up, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. ‘Couldn’t I just...wait?’

‘No’ he said. ‘Don’t eat dead things, Charlie. It’s disgusting and it will make you weak and slow. Accept who you are, and what you are. What did being human ever get you?’

She didn’t agree, but she didn’t argue either, hooking her fingers into the man’s throat to slice it open so she could suck the last, pooling blood from his adam’s apple. The flash of fang as she fed caught Jeremy’s attention. He waited until she was finished - good way to lose a hand - and then caught her chin in his palm, pushing her upper lip up with his thumb on one side.

She had his teeth. Now, that was interesting. The Dutch had said the ulan strain died out because it was weak. One reason they had never much liked him.

‘What?’ she said, poking her tongue at her teeth. ‘Is something wrong.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re perfect.’

Charlie smiled at him, bright and sunny and bloody. Oh, he was definitely going to spoil her. Who could resist that pointy little grin?

‘Wipe your face,’ he told her. ‘We don’t want to attract attention.’

‘When can I go home?’ she asked, scrubbing her sleeve over her cheeks. Her fangs disappeared and her eyes bled blue again. ‘Miles will be worried.’

Jeremy clenched his jaw on a possessive growl and the urge to just let her go. It would get Miles out of his hair, and his hands would be as clean as they ever were. No, though, this time he was doing things differently. Or trying to.

‘If you go now,’ he said. ‘You’ll kill him.’

‘No,’ she said stubbornly.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. He really hadn’t appreciated Marcus when he had him. The vampire had been a lickspittle and a turncoat, but he’d been compliant.

‘Do you love him?’ he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder and walking her out of the alley. No need to clean up the dead here. Four dead bodies scattered through the Burn wouldn’t merit a raised eyebrow. Just like the good old days. Vampires should have thrived in this world, but they’d spent so long playing human they’d forgotten how to stop.

Charlie was shrugging her way around the question. Habit made him take the courteous position nearest the kerb. He’d learned so many appropriate manners over the years it could be hard to keep them straight.

‘He’s my uncle,’ she muttered, uncomfortable as a teenager. ‘He’s family.’

It wasn’t that Jeremy disagreed - family was everything - but it would have been easier if family was someone other than Miles Matheson. The man made life difficult as a matter of principle.

‘The stronger you feel about someone, the more...’ Jeremy said, trying to feel his way through a lesson he’d always just left to bloody, practical experience. He scratched his eyebrow and tried again. ‘What did Bass taste like to you?’

She wrinkled her nose at giving her enemy a first name, but her tongue darted out as if there might be a drop left somewhere. ‘Smoked venison sausage.

Jeremy’s eyebrows lifted slightly in amusement. He’d have to remember to tell Bass that sometime. ‘What’s your favourite food?’

‘Smoked sausage,’ she said promptly and then frowned.

‘To me blood tastes like honey on warm bread,’ Jeremy said. It was one of the few distinct memories from his mortal life, after so long: smearing honey on bread for his breakfast and the peaceful rites of the church. ‘Blood and the bite are how we love now, and everything you were before becomes part of that. Blood is your new favourite taste, so it tastes like your favourite taste. Do you understand?’

She took a deep breath, lower lip heading for a pout. ‘No.’

Jeremy sighed and tried to think of a better way of putting it. He touched his hand to the small of Charlie’s back, detouring her from the main road into the maze of rebuilt tenements.

‘Have you ever seen someone after you thought you’d lost them?’ he asked slowly.

‘Danny,’ Charlie said promptly, her voice small. Ah, of course. Jeremy was glad he’d not been directly involved in that. He patted her shoulder comfortingly.

‘When you saw him did you want to hug him until he just...popped?’ Jeremy asked. They walked past a derelict hugging a bottle under the twisted iron ruins of what had once been a fire escape.

A sad smile tilted Charlie’s mouth at one side. ‘Yeah,’ she said.

‘Well, imagine that feeling when you see Miles - only with more biting and rending and drinking down every last drop of him...so he’ll never leave you again.’

Charlie stopped dead in the middle of the alley. She looked aghast, and angry.

‘So I can’t ever see Miles again?’ she said. ‘What about Nora? My Mom? What about...am I just meant to not care about anyone? Ever?’

He held his arms out. ‘You can care about me?’

She glared at him.

‘It’s easier to care about other vampires,’ he said.

‘You care about Monroe. You wouldn’t let me kill him and I can smell him, all over you.’

‘Easier,’ Jeremy repeated, trying not to look embarrassed. ‘It doesn’t mean it’s impossible to care about humans. You just have to be careful and in control. Charlie, you’re only a night old and haven’t even had your own first kill yet. I promise, you’ll see Miles soon.’

She narrowed her eyes - gone black again - at him. ‘I won’t let you hurt him.’

‘You keep your fangs off Bass,’ Jeremy said, holding out his hand. ‘I’ll keep mine of Miles. Deal?’

It took a second, but finally Charlie nodded and grabbed his hand to shake. ‘Deal.’

He tugged her back into motion.

 

It was closer to tomorrow than tonight when Jeremy got back to the embassy, but the light in Bass’ room was still light. Candlelight, not electricity. No point in scaring the natives until it made a point. Jeremy thought about going in through the window, but it didn’t seem worth bothering. Everyone thought he was fucking Monroe anyhow, and there was something so ridiculous about scrabbling up and down walls like a spider.

Besides, if he was going to stay Jeremy Baker then he needed to remember to be Jeremy Baker and Jeremy Baker took the stairs.

He let himself into Bass’ suite, opening his mouth to draw the lingering smell of blood over his tongue. It was a bad idea. Hunger roused and clawed hopefully at his veins, reminding him how dry they were, how parched. Like a vegetarian licking a side of beef.

Bass was still behind his desk, a clean jacket buttoned up until only the edge of the bandage was visible. Apparently the night had been enough for him abandon his no-booze policy for a bottle of beer. Two, in fact. He dog-eared the book he was reading and set it aside, standing up.

‘Charlie’s settled,’ Jeremy said.

Bass lifted the extra beer and offered it to Jeremy, dangling it by the neck between his fingers. The bottle was still cold as Jeremy took it, slivers of ice sticking to the glass.

‘Do you even need to drink?’ Bass asked, sprawling out on the couch. ‘Or eat for that matter?’

Jeremy glanced at the book on the desk. Dracula. He lifted it up and flicked through it to find Bass’ place. The vampire brides. Typical.

‘Research?’ he asked.

‘Now I’m not terrorising the men by ordering random murders,’ Bass said, self-loathing slicing under the glib words. ‘I need something to keep them busy.’

Jeremy tossed the book back down where he’d got it. ‘Stoker made half of it up.’

‘And the other half.’

Jeremy just grinned and sucked down a mouthful of beer. Bass stared at him and then raised his eyebrows.

‘You were the inspiration for Dracula?’ he said sceptically.

‘Some of it,’ Jeremy shrugged. He nudged Bass’ foot out of the way with his knee and sat down. ‘The good bits.’

Bass cracked a grin. ‘Finally, I know a celebrity,’ he said mockingly. ‘And you didn’t answer my question.’

‘The blood is the life,’ Jeremy quoted. ‘He got that bit right.’

‘So why bother?’

‘People notice if you never eat,’ Jeremy said. He sipped the beer again and smiled. ‘Besides, I enjoy the ritual of it. You’re taking this very well.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Bass said. ‘I’m the totalitarian dictator of a dystopian America, conquered by fighting with swords like pirates, because my best friend’s ex-girlfriend and sister-in-law turned off the electricity using tiny floating computers. Vampires? Big deal.’

‘There are werewolves too,’ Jeremy said.

‘We have any?’

‘No, they’re mostly in the Wastelands,’ Jeremy said, slinging his arm over the back of the couch. ‘Living as nature intended - naked and smelly.’

There was silence for a second. ‘Are there ghosts?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Bass dangled his arm off the couch, setting the bottle down on the floor with a click. ‘Jeremy, come here and suck my cock.’

The beer went down the wrong way. Technically that shouldn’t matter, but his body was off the firm opinion that shit needed spluttered back up again. He coughed, wiped his mouth and glared at Bass, who smirked and pointed at his crotch.

‘And Miles always said you were the smooth one.’

Bass snorted. ‘Well, compared to him.’ He propped himself up and twisted his fist in Jeremy’s jacket, pulling him down into an awkwardly angled kiss. His lips moved against Jeremy’s as he spoke. ‘I don’t see the point in playing games. I want to fuck you, the nanites aren’t going to stop working because I come - trust me - and vampires fuck. So prove it.’

Jeremy hesitated.

‘Not...usually...humans,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘It’s heresy. Perverse.’

Bass kissed him again, careless and warm and very human.

He didn’t kiss anything like Jane. Her kisses had been soft and stolen, cozened out of her, while Bass was all tongue and the rough scrape of stubble. It still reminded Jeremy of her. Maybe because she was the only other human he’d been with. Even after he disregarded so many of the Dutch’s other rules, he’d kept that one. It was his weakness. The same one he passed to Aidan. Loving them.

And somehow his fingers were dug into Bass’ hair and they were sprawled over the couch, his cock digging into Bass’ hip.

‘In that case,,’ Bass said, breaking away from the kiss, ‘I guess you’re a pervert?’

‘And a heretic,’ Jeremy admitted. Fuck it. It wasn’t as if he’d not known this was on the cards. He kissed Bass back hard, biting his lips and stealing the taste of him off his tongue. ‘For this, they’d probably think up a new word for me.’

‘If you’re going to sin go big,’ Bass said agreeably. He bit Jeremy’s lower lip, rolling the curve of flesh between his teeth before letting go. ‘Or, in your case, go down.’

Human’s always talked about arousal being heat and fire and heaviness. If he thought about - even after all this time - Jeremy could remember the heat flushing from his balls out when he’d seen a pretty girl.

Vampire lust was cold and parched, someone else’s blood pumping into your cock and the sharp pain of un-bared fangs pricking at his gum. The blood and the bite, and he couldn’t have either. Not yet.

But he could have this. He could have Bass.


	6. Chapter 6

Jane had been sweet and kind, all shy kisses and small noises in bed. It hadn’t been easy to be with her and not have all of her, but she made it easier for Jeremy to play the human. Bass apparently felt easy was for the weak. His kisses were rough and eager, stubble and teeth, and he was more inclined to give orders than make polite kitten sounds.

‘Touch me. Harder. Shut up and use your mouth.’

And they hadn’t made it as far as the bed, still sprawled over the couch.

He yanked Jeremy’s jacket off and shoved his shirt up, licking a wet route from throat to belly button, His mouth lingered on the smooth skin where they should be scars, laving each one with his tongue. Bass was still wearing his uniform and the scrape of rough wool and cold, cast-metal buttons against naked skin was...interesting. 

‘What’s it like?’ he asked, unbuckling Jeremy’s belt and tugging his trousers down over his hips. ‘Being a vampire, what’s it like.’

His hand on Jeremy’s cock, thumbing the foreskin down from the head, made focusing difficult. Jeremy shoved his hands behind his head, out of harm’s way, and swallowed a groan long enough to answer.

‘Like being a god,’ he said. ‘Powerful, untouchable...lonely.’

He hadn’t meant to admit that last; until he said it he hadn’t even known it was true. It was though. Vampires were not a sociable race, and the Dutch made a policy of breaking bonds they thought ran too deep. Friendship - love - was for the humans; predators didn’t need anything. Their vampiric ideal was a bloody beast in the forest, the bloated corpse of legend that didn’t need the trappings of humanity. Even as Bishop, Jeremy never fit for them. He liked company.

‘Sounds like being President,’ Bass said, sounding wistful. ‘I’ve got you now, though. Right?’

He dipped down and licked the head of Jeremy’s cock, wet and gleefully inelegantly. Jeremy groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, biting his tongue until he tasted his own, sour blood to keep his fangs from emerging. Soft lips and tongue licked and sucked until he was so hard it ached, lifting his hips up off the couch and rough, raw, wordless sounds scratching at his throat.

‘And you have Charlotte.’

It wasn’t quite an accusation, but it was close. Frustration clawed at Jeremy’s veins, feeding the urge that was already scraping him parched. He growled in irritation and sat up, grabbing a handful of Bass’ jacket and shoving him back against the arm of the couch. 

‘I have Charlotte,’ he agreed. ‘She’s my daughter - my legacy - and I love her as much as any father loves their child. Yet I pulled her off your throat; I took the food from my child’s mouth for you. That’s beyond perverse. I was your friend for 15 years and you had me murdered on baseless suspicion-’

‘You aren’t dead.’

Jeremy growled.

‘If I was human, I would have been. As far as you were concerned, I was. You didn’t even have the balls to do it yourself. And still I was stupid and sentimental enough to come back for you. You’re human, Bass, just dinner and spare parts. Yet I treat you like a person, I care about you - despite knowing it’s going to hurt. Isn’t that enough proof that I love you, for God’s sake?’

He was angry, his voice sliding down to a snarl scraped through ragged fangs. Even other vampires shied away from him when he showed his true face, but Bass grabbed the back of his neck and dragged him down for a kiss. Fangs scraped against his tongue, his blood heady, honey sweet, before Jeremy could put them away again.

‘Shut up and fuck me, Baker,’ Bass told him, voice gentler than the fingers he roughly twisted in Jeremy’s hair. ‘Now’

Hundreds of years, and humans still confused the hell of Jeremy. Sometimes he thought that was why the Dutch forbade contact with them. Biting was much simpler than talking.

‘That’s not an answer,’ he grumbled, but he kissed Bass anyhow and licked the taste of blood of his tongue. Cheating on his own rules, but even his control had its limits.

He stripped Bass jacket off impatiently, kissing the hollow of his throat. His mouth lingered over the throb of the pulse point, so close to the surface that just a nip... Not even a bite really. Jeremy swallowed, mouth so dry it felt scalded, and dragged himself away. He found the starburst scar on Bass’ stomach, licking the tender web of pink tissue until an impatient hand in his hair shoved him down.

‘Patience is a virtue,’ he smirked.  
‘So is getting to the point.’

Bass was already hard, his cock pressing against the front of his pants. Jeremy traced the outline of it through the heavy fabric with his mouth, making Bass squirm and curse him for a bastard. He finally gave in and stripped his trousers off, tugging them down heavy muscled thighs. 

He knew the comma shaped scar on his hip - thumb tracing the curve of it with the memory of holding Bass’ leg together while trying to resist the urge to just lap the dripping blood like a dog - and the story of the crooked v on the side of his knee. Jeremy was struck by the notion that considering this was the first time they’d had sex, and that 15 years was a heartbeat of his life, he knew Bass’ body better than anyone’s.

‘What?’ Bass asked. ‘Your bits aren’t that different.’

‘Nothing,’ Jeremy muttered, covering his hesitation by kissing the crease of Bass’ knee. ‘I’m getting old, and soft.’  
Bass snorted and slapped him on top of the head - an irritatingly familiar gesture, when Jeremy thought about it. ‘You better not be. I have plans for that hard-on.’

Jeremy bit his thigh for that, blunt human teeth worrying a bruise into the soft flesh. He licked it in apology and kissed his way up to Bass’ balls, sucking gently on the fine skin. Bass groaned appreciatively, shifting his knee to give Jeremy’s shoulders room between his thighs. One hand twisted in Jeremy’s hair, not quite pulling, as he licked along the thick vein from base to head. He sucked on the head, tongue swiping around the glans. The slow, heavy throb of the blood in Bass’ cock made his mouth water, fangs scraping against the raw insides of his gum.

Not a good idea to tempt fate. He pulled back, ignoring the tug of Bass’ hand at his head, and reached down to trace his thumb along the wet path his tongue had left from head to balls. The scrape of fingers over the thin cord under his balls made Bass swear and lift his hips. Jeremy pressed his fingertip against his hole and then paused. It had been a while since he’d been with a human (at least, one who was going to survive the experience), but...  
‘I need lube, right?’

Bass snorted. ‘Vampires too good for lube?’

Jeremy grinned - human teeth, sharp smile. ‘We kinda make our own.’

‘That’s disgusting,’ Bass told him. ‘Spit’ll do.’

‘Because one bodily fluid is so much better than another,’ Jeremy snorted, sucking his fingers until they were slick and wet. He reached down and worked his fingers patiently into Bass’ tight hole, stretching him with slow, steady thrusts of his fingers.  
Bass swore in low, pushing down against Jeremy’s hand and gripping his own cock. He didn’t have any patience, rough jerks of his fist and his thumb scraping over the head. Jeremy slid his fingers free and hitched Bass’ leg up, lifting his hips off the cushions. He shifted position, bracing his weight on one knee, and buried himself in Bass slowly. 

The hot clasp of flesh around his cock sent a shudder of pleasure clawing down his nerve-endings, making the muscles in his jaw cramp. He twisted himself over, hand braced against the arm of the couch and muscles standing out in solid curves, and bit kisses along Bass’ jaw. It was playing with fire; Bass’ throat was right there.

He thrust into Bass’ with slow, steady strokes, the other man’s cock rubbing against the hard, smooth line of his stomach as they moved. Bass ran his hand across his shoulders, tracing the clench and play of muscle, and down over his ribs. His breath hissed ragged and hot between his teeth, shuddering through him.

Vampires fucked in puddles of other people’s blood and the pain-pleasure of the bite. It wasn’t much different from a fight.   
Human senses were dull, blind and deaf to half the world, but they felt so much harder.

‘Jeremy,’ Bass growled his name as he grabbed his neck, pulling him down. Blunt teeth dug into Jeremy’s throat, chewing at the corded line of tendon. ‘Bite me.’  
‘No.’  
It wasn’t a convincing refusal, the word squirming unconvincingly on his tongue. 

He felt Bass’ smile against his throat. ‘I trust you.’

There was only so much temptation a vampire could resist. Jeremy groaned and buried his face in Bass’ throat, open mouth pressed against the hot throb of blood under his skin. The long muscles in his back and thighs clenched as he struggled to hang onto control, his balls tight and aching with every stroke. His tongue pressed flat against the pulse, feeling the tremor and tasting the copper-sweetness of it through Bass’ skin.

He bit down, delicately as he could manage. Tidiness wasn’t his strong suit. The points of his fangs pierced the skin and blood bloomed sweet against his tongue. He sealed his mouth over the blood and sucked hungrily at the pinprick wounds. Bass made a startled sound and grabbed the back of his head, urging him to his throat.

All his control was spent on not biting down again, harder. He hooked an arm around Bass’ hips and thrust into him roughly. The heady mix of sex and blood (not enough, all he’d take) hit him like a cocktail, leaving him blood drunk on a sip like a newborn. Underneath him, Bass gasped and orgasmed, hips jerking as he spilled himself wet and sticky between their bodies.

Jeremy dragged his mouth off Bass’ throat, licking the drops of blood away with his tongue, and came with a hard, bone-juddering shudder. He sprawled over Bass, propped up on his elbow, and watched that irresistibly sweet smile light up the other man’s face. 

‘That was worth the wait,’ Bass said, stretching out like a cat.

With an unusually human-appropriate bubble of fond feeling, Jeremy dropped a kiss on Bass’ parted lips. The boneless satiation of his body almost, almost, silenced the itch of hungry want in his bones. He could ignore it though, even as Bass dragged him down into a long, sweet kiss. It was all grins and hands sliding into places that Jeremy would usually consider moderately inappropriate.

It was distracting enough that the sharp chill of metal against the back of his neck caught him by surprise.

‘Where’s Charlie?’ Miles asked, voice rough and tired.


	7. Chapter 7

Sweat itched under Bass’ balls as he got dressed under watchful eye of Miles’ gun. Apparently whatever Jeremy had done to him had fucked with his survival instincts, because - despite being unarmed, barely seconds away from bollock-naked and faced by a man who’d sworn to kill him - he couldn’t stop grinning. His face hurt with all the grinning.

‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ Miles growled impatiently, closing the door behind Jeremy and wedging a chair under the handle. ‘You look like an idiot.’

‘Nothing,’ Bass said. Probably true for the first time in a while. He rubbed a cloth over his neck, balls aching at the memory of Jeremy’s teeth and tongue, the rasp of stubble and heavy weight of him… It had been a long time since he’d fucked anyone and felt anything. It was like watching porn, he got off but it was just friction. ‘Miles -’

‘Shut up,’ Miles said flatly. ‘I’m not here for you, nothing’s changed, Monroe. If it wasn’t for Charlie, I’d have blown your head off.’

That still hurt. It was just that Bass didn’t have any urge to buy the feeling off with someone else’s pain. Well, not much of an urge. He still couldn’t stop grinning.

‘I just wanted to talk,’ he said.

Miles glared at him. ‘Yeah, you talked to Nora for weeks.’

Ah. That. Bass realised he had barely thought of that in months. It had made that little impact on him, ordering his best friend’s lover tortured.

‘Is she ok?’ he asked.

‘Oh she’s fine,’ Miles said, voice vicious with sarcasm. ‘She always wanted a spa break. Of course she’s not OK, you asshole. What was the fucking point of that? Five days after she was taken, any information she had was expired. Not to mention the fact you had a spy at my goddamned right hand.’

Bass waited to feel guilty about that. It didn’t happen. Apparently he still felt suborning Hudson was a solid strategic decision. He was sane, that didn’t mean he was nice. That was oddly reassuring.

‘He was less than useful about more...personal details,’ Bass said.

‘You wanted to know if I was fucking her?’ Miles asked. ‘Or was it if I was fucking Rachel?’

Look at that. Bass could stop smiling. He rolled his cuffs up over lean forearms, fingers brushing the slick inked lines of his tattoo. ‘I needed to know your plans,’ he said. ‘Which has always been what you thought pillow talk was for. Rachel was an entirely different problem.’

Miles grimaced and scrubbed his hand through his hair. ‘Always was.’

Awkward silence fell. A ‘two exes, one of them with a gun, talking about the other woman who was married to one ex’s brother’ sort of silence. Bass took a breath of sour air and finally asked the question. ‘Why didn’t you just leave with her?’

Even as he said it, he wasn’t sure what time he meant. The first. The second. Maybe he had in the end, but there had been plenty of opportunities before that. He’d never taken them.

Miles shrugged and scowled, picking at the scabs of road rash across his cheekbones. ‘You needed me,’ he said, all gruff voice and shrugged shoulders.

The stomach punch of gratitude and obligation - didn’t land. Bass breathed through the odd experience, waiting for his stomach muscles to uncramp.

‘Maybe you should have,’ he said. ‘We’d have both been happier.’

‘You’d have been dead.’

‘Like I said,’ Bass said, watching Miles with steady eyes. ‘Both been happy.’

Miles looked away, barrel of the gun sagging. ‘That’s not what I wanted. Not what I ever wanted.’

‘You keep trying to make it happen.’

‘Never quite succeed, though,,’ Miles glanced back at him, mouth twisting. ‘When did that last happen, Bass?’

Old memories hung in the air between them, kisses and touches and before it all went to shit caught between their eyes. In the end, it was Miles who broke the connection. He stepped back and checked the door again, cracking it open just enough to see the hall.

‘Anything?’

‘Nope.’

Bass pushed himself up off the desk and tugged his shirt tight over his shoulders, buttoning it up from tight collar - the wounds on his neck burning - to the tails he tucked into his trousers.  ‘He’s not coming back.’

‘What?’

His belt lay over the back of the sofa where Miles had made him throw it. Bass grabbed it and looped it around his hips, the familiar weight of the gun at his hip reassuring.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Miles demanded, jabbing the gun for emphasis. ‘Take that off. Sit down.’

Bass thought about arguing, about trying to explain about Charlie and vampires and everything, then decided he didn’t have the time, or the patience. He shrugged his coat in and gave Miles a sunny, sunny smile that decided it was welcome to stay on his face.

‘You’ve already said you aren’t going to kill me,’ he pointed out, striding towards the door. ‘How are you going to stop me?’

Miles tackled him, taking them both down onto the wooden floor with a bone-jarring thump. It wasn’t much of a fight, all knees and elbows and trying to keep it quiet enough not to attract attention. It was how they used to fight as kids, rolling around on kid-sticky floors, digging in knuckles to leave bruises. Bass couldn’t help the bubble of laughter escaping him - squeezing through irritation (with Miles) and anger (with Jeremy). The whole thing was so undignified; the fearsome leaders of the Militia rolling around on the floor scrapping like children.

‘What’s so funny?’ Miles demanded in a rough mutter, fist clenched in Bass’ hair as jammed his elbow against his throat.

‘This,’ Bass said. He bucked, shoving Miles off him roughly. ‘We look like idiots.’

Pain pulsed in his cheekbone and his lip tasted bloody and fat when he licked it. Miles didn’t - gratifyingly - look any better, blood dripping into his eye from a split eyebrow and blue shading from his chin to his jawbone from Bass’ elbow to his face.

‘Fuck you,’ Miles muttered. He spat on the floor - blood and frothy spit. ‘Although I suppose you have Baker for that now.’

‘Jealous,’ Bass mocked, using the desk to drag himself to his feet. He was too old for this. Sometimes it shocked him to realise how many years had passed since it went dark. Miles glared at him, face black and sullen and…seriously? Scrubbing his fingers through his hair Bass wondered how fast and hard the nanites were having to skitter around in his brain to ‘manage’ his reactions to that. ‘Jesus, Miles. Isn’t it about two vaginas and three murder attempts too late for that?’

Baker though?’ Miles grumbled, standing up. He brushed himself off. Not that his grubby jeans and worn to greasy skin suede duster looked much better afterwards. ‘Man’s an idiot.’

It was a familiar complaint. Even before Jeremy flashed fang, both of them had known it wasn’t true. Jeremy wasn’t an idiot, more...aggressively opposed to promotion. Still Bass caught himself bristling defensively of his...subordinate.

(Oddly hot notion that. Hot as the cool, obedient suck of Jeremy’s mouth on his cock. Like having a pet lion on a leash.)

‘You shouldn’t underestimate him.’

‘Well, it’s nearly impossible to over-estimate him,’ Miles said. He glanced from Bass to the door, his mouth twisting as he sounded his way through what to trust. ‘If he’s hurt her, Bass…Don’t stand between us.’

Bass absently scratched his neck, picking at the edges of the bandage with his nails. It stung, hot and prickly, a tactile memory of her teeth and the heat-leeching clutch of her body around him. He prefered men - although get him drunk enough and he didn’t care - but that had felt strangely, seductively good.

‘She can take care of herself.’

‘She doesn’t have to,’ Miles said flatly. ‘Why should I trust you, Bass. How can I trust you? You’ve tried to kill her before.’

‘That was...’ Bass hesitated, trying to find a way to justify that, to explain it. He couldn’t. The thought of Charlie - little stroppy Charlotte all grown up and a lot less sticky than he remembered her - dying in front of him had been...compelling, envious. It made no sense - now - but he could remember being jealous that her enmity was so straightforward. ‘I know. I am sorry.’

They stared at each other. The anger that had been the constant undertone to Miles’ personality since the blackout faded into...uncertainty.

‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked. ‘You’re...’

He didn’t finish. There had been too many other false starts, hopes raised only to be dashed in a puddle of blood, for that. He just looked confused. Bass answered the unspoken question anyhow.

‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you after we’ve found our runaways.’

This time Miles didn’t stop Bass on his way to the door. He threw it open and strode out into the hall, snapping orders. On the stairs, Franklin caught up to him. The stoic officer’s expression had escaped deadpan into...disapproval.

‘Sir?’ he said, then glanced at Miles. His eyebrows quirked into a question. ‘And...’

‘Matheson,’ Bass said, ignoring Miles’ sour grunt of disagreement. He wouldn’t want to be called a General, or have the militia call him sir, but he didn’t appreciate not having it either.‘Fetch the bikes and the pendants, Franklin.’

‘Should I get Captain Baker too?’ Franklin asked - carefully neutral and fooling no-one.

‘No,’ Bass said.

Franklin glanced from him to Miles, sniffed, saluted and left.

‘Seriously?’ Miles grumbled, dropping into place at his shoulder. Their feet dropped into pace as if they’d never stopped being in time. ‘Last I heard, everything thought you’d killed Jeremy. Now he’s your right hand man. What changed?’

It had been Miles who knew about the Blackout first, if only by seconds, Miles who found Rachel, Miles who found the pendant first. So Bass took a certain pleasure in pausing in front of the doors to the courtyard and looking around at Miles.

‘I did kill him; he came back. It made an impression.’

He left Miles and his ‘what?’ behind him as he headed outside. Recruits in grey were wheeling out the two Harleys they’d salvaged from a scrapyard - matte-black and battered, but impossibly slick in a world used to rusted car corpses harnessed to donkeys.

Jeremy was fast - Bass had see it - but he was also cocky. He’d not run far. He wouldn’t think he’d need to, but Bass had lost him once. It wasn’t going to happen again.


End file.
